


I'd Probably Still Adore You (With Your Hands Around My Neck)

by sunshinetina



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Angst, Friendship/Love, M/M, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-20
Updated: 2014-10-20
Packaged: 2018-02-21 22:33:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2484701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshinetina/pseuds/sunshinetina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Suddenly, his 505 becomes the 505 times per hour he thinks of the moments spent with Mario.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'd Probably Still Adore You (With Your Hands Around My Neck)

**Author's Note:**

> And yet another angsty Götzeus short fic, for this prompt: http://thesilverwitch.livejournal.com/31896.html?thread=581528#t581528 of the footy ficathon. :)  
> (Closely following the '505' song by Arctic Monkeys.)

He said he could live with that. He said he could be happy this way: living in Dortmund, playing for Borussia (or, rather, surviving his recent injuries), every now and then going out with Mats and the others, etc, etc. He said he would be perfectly fine with playing FIFA with his teammates (or sometimes even alone), losing to them occasionally, and getting frustrated with it for awhile. He said all of it. None of it is true.

 

He couldn’t live with that. He couldn’t be happy because before Dortmund meant home but he soon realised that the cliché of _Home is not a place but a person_ was fully working on his pathetic self (Dortmund, sadly, was just a _place_ for him now). He couldn’t go out with Mats and the others because something – _someone_ – was missing, and it was always _He_ (with capital ‘H’), who mattered. He couldn’t be fine with playing FIFA and lose because he felt awful for losing now and was blaming himself, but that never happened when _He_ (how could a capital ‘H’ be more capital?) was here – back then he was even happier when losing, just to see _Him_ smile. He couldn’t be any of that now.

 

Sometimes, Marco would _go back to their fictional 505_ , to the moments they spent together, forgetting the world around. Just the two of them – Sunny and Marcinho (and never the other way around) – being endlessly happy and undoubtedly addicted to each other’s presence.

 

Sometimes, Marco keeps encouraging himself, sometimes it is just _an hour flight or a five-hour drive_ and he could screw Dortmund and just go to Munich for the weekend (were two days enough, though?). It would be just the same, right? Mario would still open the door, would beam his sunshine smile, would hug Marco, and they would breathlessly talk the entire night about different nonsense until Mario falls asleep on Marco’s shoulder and Marco couldn’t help but stare at Mario’s impossibly long eyelashes.

 

Sometimes it is Marco’s _imagination_ playing tricks on him when he shuts his eyes closed, vividly envisioning Mario _lying on his side_ , smirking, licking his lips, laughing, his _hands_ vividly gesticulating...

 

Then Marco _stops and waits a sec_. Or two. Or, hell, _months_ after Mario left.

 

And Marco still _crumbles completely_ upon remembering the tears in Mario’s eyes when he _greeted him with_ his final _goodbye_. But then they meet again – a coincidence or not really – and Marco just forgets about everything and couldn’t help but smile and touch and feel.

 

He just always _spoils_ the moment, he thinks. _Taking_ Mario’s hand in his way _too soon_ and whispering in his ear and smiling at the crook of his neck. And Marco swears – he just sees it so clearly – that Mario is smiling and blushing. And Marco reaches out and tucks the fallen brown-goldish strand of hair away, and Mario looks up at him, and Marco just loses it. Loses it all.

 

Suddenly, a five-hour drive becomes the five seconds between his face and the countless stars in Mario’s meltingly brown eyes. Suddenly, his _505_ becomes the 505 times per hour he thinks of the moments spent with Mario. Suddenly, his imagination plays no more tricks on him because here he is – _his Sunny_ – just a hand stretched out and he would reach his soft bubbled cheeks.

 

Then Marco _stops and waits a sec_. It hurts. It hurts because Mario is here but Marco knows it won’t last, and it hurts like the _twisting of a knife_ , deepening a _mark_ in his vulnerable skin. So close, yet so far away. So his, yet so other’s. With Marco so fallen for him, yet so (desperate for) hating him.

 

And then Mario looks up at him again and _smiles_. Marco gulps upon cupping Mario’s face, a bit _harsher_ than a hug, raising his voice a bit _harsher than a bark_. Mario’s eyes question him, Marco’s half-crooked smile answers him with a quivering _Don’t look at me like that, Sunny, don’t tell me you expected something else._

_It’s late_ , Mario would say, trying to untangle his neck from Marco’s tight fingers, _I need to go now_. And Marco would smile, feeling Mario gulp and his Adam’s apple move under Marco’s fingers. Marco would press their foreheads together.

 

 _You’d leave. You always do._ He whispers and lets it go, and Mario touches his recently made light bruises from Marco’s grip before taking his jacket and leaving. Marco looks at himself from the mirror, as though mentally scanning through all the times this moment was planted in his mind.

 

Mario leaving.

 

Marco, with the invisible bruises inside of him.

 

Marco closes his eyes, hearing the sound of Mario’s car fading away in the distance. And he just knows – he just feels – that he would count the seconds until they meet again. Every time Mario hurts him, he would always instantaneously forget the pain and only remember Mario’s smile, laugh, eyes, touch, voice. Marco would be bleeding because of Mario and still choose him a thousand times before anything, before anyone else. Before himself. Because _Marco would ~~probably~~ surely_ _still adore Mario with his hands around Marco's neck_.

 

_Or he did last time he checked._


End file.
